


Tainted Love

by tenaya



Series: Dark Love [1]
Category: Forever Knight, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1996-09-01
Updated: 1996-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenaya/pseuds/tenaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1349, Methos and LaCroix meet by chance in plague ravaged England and again in 1995 Seacouver.  This takes place soon after the episode Chivalry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tainted Love

# TAINTED LOVE

  


## by Tenaya

  


#### DARK LOVE SERIES: I

  


#### Seacouver, 1995:

"Look, Richie, I'm only going on about this because it's important. You've got to start thinking with your head or you are going to lose it." Adam Pierson, aka Methos, the oldest living Immortal, put all the sincerity he had into his plea.

"Yeah. Like a lot you know." Richie Ryan was sullen. He twirled his beermug about by the handle and wished Adam would go away. He was in the mood tonight for the blues, a beer, and some quality time with MacLeod. Well, here at Joe's Tavern he had all three and the pesky Adam Pierson to boot. He didn't know why Mac allowed that guy to hang around. He glanced up at Mac and saw the concern written all over his face. Perhaps he could get Mac to send him away.

"Richie, I know what I'm talking about. Do you know that the best sex I have _ever_ had in my entire life was an incredibly sick, yet intense experience with someone who would make Kristen look like Rebecca of Sunnybrooke Farm?"

Duncan MacLeod glanced at Adam and raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Richie leaned forward in his chair. This was the sort of history he found interesting. "Really? What did she look like?"

"Richie!" Duncan chided.

"Oh no! There is no way I'm going to tell either of you about that. And besides, this is exactly what I'm talking about! You have got to smarten up and not let your…desires make your decisions for you!" Adam continued. He was agitated and his voice was beginning to carry.

Duncan leaned forward. "Adam, calm down. This is neither the time nor the place." Richie, on the other hand, was enjoying hearing Mac reprimand someone other than himself for a change.

Adam slumped back in his chair. "Yes, all right," he said tersely. He looked away. The fingers of his right hand began a rapid, nervous drumming on the table.

Duncan shook his head. "What is wrong with you? You've been acting jumpy for the last few days."

"Nothing. Nothing at all," he snapped. Now it was Adam's turn to be sullen.

Duncan looked between the two of his friends. "Look, guys. Can we lighten up a little? Joe's gonna get real pissed if"

Suddenly, Adam sat straight up, his head twisting in a slow swivel from side to side. If Richie didn't know better, he would have thought that an Immortal had just come into range, but he felt nothing. "Mac?" he questioned.

MacLeod shook his head, baffled.

Adam's eyes grew round and he seemed ready to bolt from his seat.

"Adam? What is it?" MacLeod was uneasy and very worried.

"Where is the nearest Catholic church?" Adam spoke softly, almost distractedly. His attention was definitely elsewhere.

"What?" Richie gave his head a brief shake, the nonsequitur nearly giving him a brainstrain.

"Out the door, to your left for 3 blocks, then right for another two. Why?"

Adam reached up and clasped the object he wore around his neck. It lay underneath his sweater and he fingered it through the heavy material. He glanced worriedly at MacLeod. "Have you ever encountered vampires?"

"Adam…." MacLeod was exasperated. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dear god. I have to go. It's best if you stay here with Richie. I'll be back when I can." He stood up without another word and was out the door before MacLeod and Richie had done more than stare at each other in bafflement.

"We go after him, right?" Richie asked. Richie didn't think it was safe for unbalanced Immortals to be wandering about on their own.

Mac nodded, obviously filled with consternation. "You're damn right." They ran for the door.

* * * * *

"I don't understand. Why is this one so special?"

LaCroix was excited, the hunt giving them both a sharp edge that was intoxicating. Glorious anticipation tormented him with such sweet pain that it made him feel quite generous, for tonight he would claim something he had waited six hundred years for. "Natalie, there is so much for you to unlearn. You accepted the truth about vampires, and now it is time to learn about beings who call themselves Immortals."

"More secrets. Great. What else did Nick neglect to tell me?" she asked sarcastically. She was still steamed about what she viewed as her betrayal by Nicolas. In the act of 'bringing her across,' he drank too much of her blood and with her life on the line, he had chosen to let her die rather than to do what he had promised. And what she had wanted for a very long time.

LaCroix smiled. He enjoyed the freshness of her emotions. Anger was such a useful tool. "Actually, I'm not sure Nicolas knows about these. So you see, you already know something that he does not."

"Sometimes I wish you had killed him." She was in a mood to pout. "Sealing him up in that crypt doesn't seem like enough punishment for me. He was going to let me die, and after he'd just promised me we would always be together."

LaCroix couldn't blame her for how she felt. When Nicolas chose to have LaCroix end both his own and Natalie's life instead of bringing her across, LaCroix knew he had allowed events to progress too far. Extreme measures were called for. Instead of staking Nicolas through the heart as his protege had wanted, LaCroix used the post to knock him senseless. Then it took all the skill he had to spirit Natalie back from the eternal void she had nearly slipped into and welcome her into the realm of forever night. Soon afterwards they had left Toronto and embarked on a journey with no specific destination in mind. Anywhere was fine as long as it was not Toronto.

"His 'punishment' may not be enough  for you. But for him, as the years stretch on, it will give him the time he needs to truly wallow in his guilt, until even _he_ will have his fill of it. When his penance is done, we will let him out. His anger at being imprisoned will have burned away the emotions that were suffocating him. He will want to live again." He favored her with a fervent look. "Then you will have the pleasure to know the real Nicolas!"

Natalie tossed her hair back. "If you say so." She wasn't convinced, but who was she to disagree with the one who had given her what she had long desired  immortality. He was her master now and she had found that he was not nearly as bad as Nick had led her to believe he was. "So, what is it we are doing here?"

"You're going to help me capture this man, then you will be left to your own devices for a night or two. Try to enjoy yourself."

"Daddy Takes A Holiday?"

It was a good thing that LaCroix appreciated her sarcasm. "Something like that."

"Let's do it."

LaCroix smiled fondly. Natalie really did have a knack for being a vampire. It was a pity that Nicolas had not been the one to bring her across.

* * * * *

Methos paused at the first alley he came to. He could feel them out there, circling about. Definitely more than one. Vampires. He shook his head; it was useless to try to convince someone that they were real, particularly when that someone was as stubborn as MacLeod. It was better to try and draw them away from the unwary. And away from MacLeod. He was very important to Methos for a variety of reasons  some of them highly personal.

He could feel the suggestion compelling him to walk down the street and into the park. The summons was an irresistible siren's call and to defy it was causing him to break out in a cold sweat.

It had to be LaCroix. That had to have been why events of over six hundred years ago had been leaping to mind every time he wasn't actively thinking about something else. LaCroix had to have found him and now wanted him again. Wanted to have their bodies entwined together….

Furious at yet another unbidden vision of lust and passion, he grimaced. "Not if I can bloody well help it!"

He glanced uncertainly into the alley. That could be a trap, too, but at least it was still in the direction of the church. He reached up and took off his necklace. He now held the simple but ancient silver cross by its black string. Taking a deep breath, he slipped through the shadows and into the alley.

A hundred feet in, he heard the barest of rasps behind him. He spun, holding the crucifix well out in front of him. A woman stood an arm's length away. She would have been considered pretty in a sisterly sort of way if her eyes had not been glowing an eerie orange color. She hissed, displaying a formidable set of canines. Her arm flashed out and she backhanded his hand, sending the cross flying into a pile of rubble.

"Please," he begged, backing away from her.

She advanced on him. "Funny. I've always wanted to have men begging me. Interesting that this is what it takes." She shrugged. "Whatever."

There was a clatter as the other two Immortals from the tavern sped into the alley and skidded to a stop just behind her.

"Jeez, Mac. Adam's afraid of a girl? What a wimp."

The 'girl' spun around, hissing. Her eyes blazed an even darker orange. She picked up the young Immortal and tossed him into a dumpster. She dusted her hands off. "Ain't _nobody_ ever gonna call me 'girl' again."

She gave a challenging look at MacLeod. "You want some of what your buddy got?"

Duncan moved back a pace and drew out his katana. Holding the weapon warily out in front of him, he backed up towards the light cast by a business' back entrance. "Adam, what the hell is going on here?" His voice was strained.

Natalie snorted. "Whew! You sure skip right to the rough stuff, big guy." She circled MacLeod carefully.

Adam started forward. "No!" The rest was cut off abruptly as he suddenly felt hands caressing his torso. Slow, sensuous strokes that dove low to his hips and came back up under his sweater. Hands that were warm, but still had the last vestiges of an unearthly coolness to them as they fondled harder, rubbing up to his nipples, pinching them sharply.

Methos groaned. He realized the memory fragments that had been projected at him were really a vampire's version of foreplay. Erotic, emotional, lustful; visions filled with want and hunger. And no matter how much he had tried to resisted them, they still had had the desired effect on him. It took everything he had to stop himself from turning about and giving his tormentor a deep, hard kiss. He had to swallow before he could speak. "LaCroix."

The deep, lyrical voice from the past contained a chuckle. "You remembered." He sounded pleased.

"Does it matter that I don't want this?" He brought his hands up to try to still the other's caresses.

"But I think you do. In fact, I can feel the heat in your blood, _mon doux repas prefere_." The moist mouth found an ear lobe to suckle.

Duncan's sword sliced through the air where Natalie had been. Instantly she was behind him. She pushed him hard to the ground and followed to pin him there.

Methos, his eyes never leaving the struggle, tilted his head to allow LaCroix access to his neck. "Stop her, LaCroix. If you spare them, unharmed, I will go with you." He reached back for LaCroix's ass, giving it a firm, long squeeze. "I promise I will make it worth your while."

"As I thought; another of your promises, so freely given, so difficult to collect on."

The fight on the ground had escalated to where MacLeod was putting everything he had into the battle  and he was still losing.

For five thousand years, Methos had lived in many cultures and assumed a great variety of roles. Sometimes he got what he wanted by being straight forward, but most of the time it was by being oblique. And sometimes it was by surrendering. A sense of his priorities kept him focused and gave him purpose.

And old, welllearned techniques that had always brought results were never forgotten or out of fashion.

Methos leaned back against LaCroix, letting his body undulate in the most suggestive manner he could manage. "Tell her to stop."

The arms that encircled Methos constricted painfully, trapping him securely and holding him still. "Yes. All right." There was a tight, breathless quality to LaCroix's voice. His need was palpable, both from the psychic emanations from the vampire and from the growing bulge pressing against Methos' back. As to who had whom trapped was open to debate.

"Natalie…stop."

Slowly she did as requested, reluctantly removing herself to a few feet away from the Highlander. She continued to stare at him hungrily.

"You are not to touch them; do you understand?" LaCroix asked. His desire was so great, he began to move against Methos, unable to restrain his body from what it thirsted for.

MacLeod pushed himself up to his knees. "Adam!" He could see his friend was held immobile, enfolded by a much larger man; a man whose expression was both lecherous and victorious. "What the hell is going on?!" Duncan demanded, completely at a loss.

LaCroix smiled wickedly. He angled his head over Methos' long, slender neck and let his tongue lave slowly, sensuously over the exposed flesh. His eyes glittered with intensity as they stayed locked with MacLeod's, feasting on the alarm and anxiety that emanated from their brown depths.

"You can not help me, MacLeod," Methos said, defeatedly.

Duncan looked back at Methos and could see the fear and the resignation in the ancient Immortal's eyes. "Adam! Don't do this!" he pleaded.

With a slight sense of disorientation, Methos felt his feet leave the earth. LaCroix was flying him to somewhere. Straight up they went, but he kept eye contact with Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod until he was swallowed by the darkness. And he prayed with all his heart that he might be allowed to be returned to those strong arms, his place within them only just recently won by a combination of charm and pure doggedness.

* * * * *

#### England, 1349:

LaCroix's hunger was intense. His body burned with the need for sustenance, his cells crying out in their privation. He drifted above the desolate English countryside, the blackness of a moonless night causing the land below to be darker even than the night sky. Desperately, he searched for the flicker of a candle or the glow of a campfire; anything that would indicate a living soul.

But there was nothing. Nothing but decay and the stench of rotting corpses as they lay where they fell, with no one left to bury them. Village after village passed beneath him, all of them dead. The plague had suffered no survivors in this shire.

His hunger grew as he widened his search, following the river away from the market towns. He headed out into the hills where the population was scarce to begin with. Perhaps a shepherd, poacher or an outlaw still remained untouched by the taint of the Black Death. Once infected, the blood soured with its corruption and then death quickly followed. LaCroix had fed on so much of it that he could stand it no longer. The hunger was easier to deal with than a stomach full of putridity.

He kept searching, heading further and further into the wilderness of the Marlborough Downs and wished again he had stayed with Nicolas in Paris, instead of coming here on a whim. Actually, it was less a whim than to spare himself the embarrassment of showing any of the jealousy that filled his cold heart as he watched Nicolas cavorting with his newest consort. Margarite was a female vampire, wild and daring, and she delighted in spurring LaCroix's protege into acts of recklessness and…passion. She was an old acquaintance of LaCroix's, and he knew firsthand of her inherent cruelty. LaCroix hoped that if he left, depriving her of her audience, her desire to torment him would wither and then, predictably, she would tire of Nicolas. Then LaCroix could return to Paris.

The wind shifted, bringing the hint of wood smoke to him. "Ah…." he groaned, giving thanks to the goddess, Diana, for hearing his pleas. Then he sneered at his own words; old habits were hard to break, even to the extent of appealing to ancient gods that even he no longer believed in.

LaCroix turned his face into the wind and followed the scent. He was on the hunt, and he felt his blood quicken with the hope of replenishment.

He soon found the house; all alone in a shallow valley, a faint light seeping from around the thin cracks of the window shutters. He landed lightly on the stone stoop, placed his hand on the door latch and hesitated, listening.

One. He could hear the slow and steady beat of one heart.

He could wait no longer and he was instantly in the house, standing in front of a table where a man sat writing in a large book, his back to the modest fire in the hearth.

The man startled and looked up, light brown eyes wide with alarm. "Who are you?" he demanded, setting his quill down, and gliding smoothly to his feet. He backed up a step.

Pleased at the healthy glow in the thin face, LaCroix decided to get to the point; his hunger would allow no delay. He stared hard into the frightened eyes, flooding his will over the young man, stealing from him the course of action. He advanced slowly on his stunned victim, maintaining his control.

"It matters not," he soothed, as he reached out to the figure clothed in a heavy wool robe. The pulse in the long, pale neck beckoned, enticing him with its promise of sweetness. He circled behind and brought his arms up around his dazed quarry, baring the throat. The change coursed through him like fire and he sank his teeth deep into the warm flesh. Blood flowed and he sucked eagerly at the wound…and was transported!

The taste! It was like nothing he'd ever had! It was….

Lightening crackled against his lips. Shocked, LaCroix was flung against the wall.

His victim staggered as awareness returned. A split second later, he bolted around the table and came up holding a sword. He pointed the blade at the vampire and started forward with a halting determination.

The man's impertinence angered LaCroix. With his preternatural speed, he was instantly inside the other's defenses. LaCroix stared down into the slighter man's terrified eyes. "Fool!" he sneered, then reached out and snapped his neck. LaCroix preferred to have the heart pumping while he ate, but it was not required. A meal that was fighting back with a sharp weapon was sure to be a meal that he would not enjoy.

He bit into the throat again and sucked hard, draining as much as he could, as fast as he could. The wonderful taste was still there, but he gulped quickly, his hunger demanding volume rather than appreciation. But even still, his mind was flooded with images  the life experiences of his prey. Or at least, that's what should have happened, but the sheer number of the fragments cascading into LaCroix made him feel as if he was drowning. Confused and disturbed, he rejected the memories and finished, dropped his meal untidily to the ground.

Now that he was sated, he glanced uneasily about the room. Who was this man, and what was he doing out here? LaCroix stepped over the dead man and peered at the entry he'd been writing when he was interrupted. The script was clear and strong, but written very small and in perfect Latin. It was a journal or diary, and this page recorded the progression of the Black Death in the current year of 1349.

Curious, he settled into the chair, and thumbed the pages back. The decades fell away, then the centuries  all accurately recorded. Truths that were known at the time, but were now long since forgotten, stared out at him from the starkness of the vellum pages. This was a chronicle that covered over three centuries…and all written in the same hand. The exact same hand that had just been transcribing the current entry. How could that be?

Suddenly, his vision blurred and LaCroix felt the room spin. So intent had he been on the words, he hadn't noticed a strange tingling that now raced through his whole being. A pain, a warmth; it was everywhere. Small muscles in his eyelids and under the skin of his forearms twitched with the spreading current. The power seemed to build, to coalesce and LaCroix found he could not breath. He knew _something_ was about to happen and he gripped the table's edge tightly, fearfully. He was a _vampire,_ immune to all threats but a few wellknown dangers. But this feeling was unknown and he found himself wondering if he had just discovered a new way for a Prince of Darkness to die.

When it seemed like he could stand it no longer, he felt the energy course downward and discharge out into the floor with a small zapping sound. The air suddenly smelt of lightning.

He sat dazed, wondering what had just occurred. And into that silence he heard something else; the beating of a human heart.

LaCroix stared at the man on the floor. It came as no surprise when the man jerked and gasped, his eyes springing open.

LaCroix nodded slowly. "That, explains a great deal," he drawled.

* * * * *

Methos took in a great, shuddering breath. The confusion that was common after a fatal event was even worse this time. He stared up at the roughhewed ceiling and tried to recall what had taken his life, but he couldn't think straight and he was having trouble catching his breath. What?

The sound of a chair being pushed back startled him and he tried to lift his head. A weakness was upon him though, and he was only able to turn his face toward the danger. A man, tall and pale approached. He stopped and stared down at Methos, a look of casual interest in his expression.

"What…?" Methos tried to asked, but he found his mouth parched, his throat too dry to speak.

This seemed to amuse his visitor. "Do you thirst?" he inquired. "I imagine you might." He caught up a pitcher of water from the sideboard and knelt down.

A strong arm slipped under Methos and pulled him into a sitting position. The movement made his head swim and he was only vaguely aware of the crockery cool against his lips.

"Drink!" The command was both heard and felt, and it was irresistible.

He swallowed weakly as the cool fluid flowed into his mouth and streamed over his chin. It was near to choking him and he tried to turn away.

"More!" came the order.

He applied himself to the task and continued to drink until there was no more. The pale man settled Methos back to the floor, but before he left him, he applied a cool touch to the right side of his throat. The caress explored the skin and rubbed firmly at a spot beneath his ear. A spot that still harbored the last vestiges of the phantom pain that remained after an injury had healed.

And then Methos remembered. This man, _this creature_ , had bewitched then attacked him, biting his neck and draining his blood. Killing him. He lifted his hand and gingerly felt the site, fearful that a deep injury to his neck might have left a scar. Immortals rarely developed scars except for serious, non fatal injuries to the neck. But luck was with him and his skin felt smooth and whole.

Feeling exposed, Methos scooted weakly over to the wall and levering himself up, braced his back against it, both for support and for the slight protection it afforded. He watched as his attacker walked slowly around the room, examining all with a speculative gaze. He picked up a small stone carving and stilled as he got a better look at it. Setting it down, he passed a crucifix, flinching slightly before he hurried on to a shuttered window. He reached out and gave the wood a brisk jiggle to test its strength. When he got to the shelving where Methos stored his journals, the man plucked one volume at random. He stood there for a long while, the pale blue eyes scanning quickly over the pages.

Time passed and Methos shifted uncomfortably; the floor was cold and had become noticeably harder the longer he sat on it. Feeling a bit stronger, he pulled his robe closer around himself. He was always sensitive to the cold, but now he felt chilled to the bone. A shiver shook him.

"If you are cold, move closer to the fire," the man spoke without stopping his reading.

Methos considered the words and tried to think of any disadvantage to the suggestion. He was loath to leave the safety of his somewhat defensible position, but he also realized that was an illusion. His assailant had mesmerized him, and when he had attacked, it had been with unearthly speed and tremendous power. There was nowhere he could go where he'd be safe, and there was no reason to stay where he was.

Except the man that had just killed him had suggested that he move.

In the end, his dislike of the cold won out. He pushed himself to his feet, teetering slightly from the lingering weakness. Methos steadied himself by placing his hand against the wall and gathered his resolve. What he really needed to find out was what this creature was, and what it wanted of him. "Who are you?" he called out. "What are you?"

The stranger snapped the book shut and turned towards Methos. "Feeling better, are we?" His voice was low and deep, with a mellifluous quality to it that made the man sound as if he was reading poetry. He slowly walked closer.

As he moved further into the light, Methos could see the man wasn't just pale, he was luminously white. His fair hair was clipped short, old style  very old style. Eyes the color of a glacial stream stared straight into him and he tensed for another attack.

"And what, pray tell, are you?" the creature asked, staring with such intensity at Methos that he backed up a foot.

The compulsion to tell the truth was sudden and nearly irresistible. "I…I am John, a scholar," Methos lied with a slight stammer. That was the name he currently was using. He had spent the last five years at Oxford, studying and generally hiding himself amid the university. Most Immortals were drawn to danger and conflict. Methos had long since discovered that places of learning were relatively quiet and dull, a veritable anathema to others of his kind. It was really quite fortunate that he enjoyed the arts of learning, studying and researching since those activities were the best for hiding. Unfortunately, Oxford had closed this year due to the plague and he had had to leave. He had returned to the empty Downs, now so different than they had once been, many lifetimes ago.

"Really." The name seemed to amuse the man and he smiled. "Well, John," LaCroix lingered over the name and raised an elegant eyebrow, "a scholar you must be to be able to write so fluently in both Latin and ancient Greek, not to mention those Egyptian and Minoan trinkets that litter your shelves."

Alarmed that his belongings were recognized and known for exactly what they were, Methos looked to the ground, anywhere but into those compelling pale eyes. How could this man know of these things? Yes, Latin and Rome were remembered but the wonders of Egypt and Crete were long forgotten. He knew this creature was not an Immortal, but what _was_ he?

He heard a chuckle and he glanced up worriedly.

"Since you have asked, you may call me LaCroix, and I believe that I will be imposing upon your hospitality for quite a while."

* * * * *

LaCroix was quite entertained just watching the emotions flow over the expressive face. Shock, alarm, horror, more alarm. Yes, this young man could prove as interesting as Nicolas was. When the wide set eyes looked back up at him, LaCroix could also see intelligence in them. This promised to be an enjoyable diversion.

LaCroix retreated back to the table and sat down. He indicated a second chair with a flourish. "Do make yourself more comfortable."

Methos hesitated for a brief second, then complied. He pulled the chair closer to the fire and sat, perching on the very edge of the chair.

LaCroix smiled again. "Good." Looking back at the book, he indicated it with a nod. "These journals are quite old and they are written in your own hand. It appears that you are much older than you seem. All that remains to be discovered is how much older."

"I could ask the same of you."

LaCroix could tell this man wasn't going to give away anything unless he was tricked into it. A battle of wits; how delightful! He smiled. "Guess," he baited, using the Latin form of the word.

Methos paused. Seeming to come to a decision, he leaned back and studied the vampire with an appraising eye. "Let us see; tall, fair, controlling, an innate cruel streak and that certain air of superiority. A knowledge of, but not an appreciation of, ancient cultures. Let me guess: Roman, centurion or higher, born in the north of Italy or of a Gaulish slave. Shall we say around the birth of Christ, give or take a hundred years?"

The boldness of the reply surprised LaCroix. Though he was stunned by the accuracy of the guess, he let himself react more to the sting of the implied insult. "Spoken like a man who had visited fair Rome herself, under less than pleasant circumstances. Now allow me to guess; you are Greek and probably spent several long lifetimes keeping the books straight and the beds warm of your Roman betters." Even in the fire light, LaCroix could see a flush creep up Methos' neck and face. It made him look quite delectable. Too bad LaCroix was still full from his previous meal.

"Bastard," Methos spat. Resentment sparked off the young man. Except this young man was probably much older than LaCroix himself. Still, he must have hit close to the mark to get such a reaction; the experiences this one must have had tantalized LaCroix. "Besides, do I look Greek to you?"

"Being Greek was a state of mind. Of course I can see that you are not a native, born to those sunny isles. But if a man lives long enough anywhere, he may absorb a culture, eventually becoming more Greek than the Greek themselves."

Studying the expressive face, LaCroix suddenly felt desire again  of a carnal nature; something he hadn't wanted in centuries. Finding a beautiful victim, seducing them and then draining their life from them, heartbeat by heartbeat was more erotic and satisfying than most of the sexual interludes he had enjoyed as a mortal had been. But there had been exceptions that he remembered longingly: Greek slaves were among the best when it came down to fucking. And now, beyond all logic, here sat a man who had been a Greek slave  a thousand years after their kind had disappeared. A man young and fair, with an openness about him that was really quite appealing. A man who knew the arts of loving another man, if LaCroix were any judge. A man who reminded him somewhat, but not completely, of his Nicolas.

"The Romans did their fair bit of absorbing peoples that did not want to be absorbed. I rather imagine that was one of your duties," Methos said, with a hint of accusation.

"Everything becomes consumed by something else eventually," LaCroix said, his eyes narrowing. He stood up slowly, tiring of this talking. What they were referring to was old news a thousand years ago and there really were more pressing matters that needed immediate attention.

Methos, alarmed by the change in tone, frantically dove off his chair and scrambled over to where his sword lie. He had barely closed his fingers over it when LaCroix was upon him.

Grabbing his right arm, LaCroix tightened his grip until the weapon fell from slackened fingers. He shoved Methos hard against the wall and leaned in, pining him. He heard the rapid flutter of the Immortal's heart, felt the strong chest gasp for breath against his own breast. The vitality of the life force was strong within his captive. LaCroix wanted him…both in bed and to feed off of. The delights of the ancient vintage that was Methos' blood called to him. He stared at the beautifully shaped lips, so fresh, so exquisitely perfused by the blood within. He leaned close for a kiss, brushing his own lips lightly over them, inhaling the heady perfume of the vital fluid so temptingly near.

He glanced up and idly wondered if those rich brown eyes could be any wider. They were frightened, yes, but there was more  maybe just the hint of a possibility? Perhaps this one could be enticed to be a willing partner. LaCroix could certainly do him no permanent harm, and he always found _willing_ to be more satisfying in the long run.

But it was late. He could hear birds chirping outside, could sense the sunrise just minutes away. To serve justice, this morsel would have to wait for tonight when LaCroix's appetite was sharper and there was more time to savor him. "Later," he breathed.

He pulled Methos with him as he walked to the bed, scooping up a length of cord from where it lay coiled on a shelf.

"Lie down," he ordered. It did not take long before he had securely tied Methos down, the wrists bound separately and the cord passing under the bed. He stared down at the slender young man, who was staring back apprehensively. LaCroix decided the expression suited him and he determined he might as well give Methos something more to fret about.

"You may be tempted to escape, but I will find you if you do, Methos."

At the use of his name, Methos' expression went incredulous.

LaCroix chuckled. "Oh yes, I know your true name. I know a great deal about you." LaCroix choose not to enlighten him that that information had been passed to him through the blood. At the time, the sheer volume of information had been confusing, but then it had made more sense as he had the chance to assimilate it. He had sensed many identities, but 'Methos' had been very consistent. He took a guess and knew it to be true by Methos' expression. Unfortunately, the other images would be much harder to decipher with just too many to figure out at the moment. He needed time to himself to truly understand what he had in his possession.

He walked over to where an internal door led to small storage room that promised to be darker and more secure. LaCroix smiled. "Sweet dreams," he bade, then slipped inside.

* * * * *

The day had dragged on slowly. Methos was comfortable enough tied to the bed, but the thought of what was in store for him made him continue to work at his bonds as he attempted to worry them apart. A beheading was the only way in which he could be permanently killed, but the idea of dying repeatedly by having one's blood drained was positively repulsive. And why did the creature have to bite the neck? Methos was very protective about his throat and hated the idea of anything sharp near it. No, despite what LaCroix had said, the best thing would be to escape.

He paused, remembering the desire that he'd seen in those compelling blue eyes. The gentleness of the kiss had surprised him, for Romans, as a rule, had been rather singleminded about what they wanted. Powerful and in control, if they saw something they wanted, it would be theirs  sooner, rather than later. Resisting them was a poor idea, as they usually made a point to punish and torment the uncooperative. Thankfully, it was a mentality he had not had to deal with for a very long time.

During the time of Rome, he had attempted to stay away from any large Roman city, as the whole culture had an attitude that he found abhorrent. Towards the end of the time of Caesars and the Empire, the civilization had sickened and gone crazy. There had been a time he had had no choice in the matter, and been taken to Rome anyway. He had been forced to do things that horrified him, forced to see things of incomprehensible cruelty  things done for sport and in the name of entertainment. All in all, Methos had been quite relieved when Rome fell and he barely regretted the anarchy that followed.

So, as intriguing as that kiss had been, he was inclined to avoid any repeats. It was safer that way.

It was late in the afternoon when Methos felt 'the buzz' of an approaching Immortal. He gave two or three violent jerks at his bonds hoping he had caused a weakening, but they still seemed secure.

He wet his lips; it looked like he needed help and he needed it now. "LaCroix!" he called out. "We need to talk; it is important!" He listened intently, but heard nothing. He could feel the Immortal outside getting closer. He tugged again at his restraints, but they were firm. He sighed. Well, capitulation always worked wonders with Romans  they couldn't resist gloating. "LaCroix! Look, I have decided it would be…enjoyable to…to know you better. Come out and release me, and I will do anything you want. LaCroix! I beg of you, please!"

The door burst inward and a man, sword out before him, leaped into the room. Maintaining the ready stance, he quickly moved about, scanning for others. He kicked in the door to the storage room, glanced about and then returned, centering his attention on Methos. He was tall, darkhaired, blueeyed and dressed as a fighter. His gear was well taken care of and he was heavily armed. Formidable, efficient and dangerous; this did not bode well. Helpless before him, Methos suddenly felt very ill.

He quit struggling and concentrated on talking his way out. "Ahh…my name is John and you are…?"

"Rennard d'Lyon." The accent was French, much heavier than what the Norman elite of England used. The man must travel a great deal, not bothering to attempt to blend into the population. He was probably intent on one thing only.

Rennard moved up to the bed and braced his legs apart.

"Rennard, this is not very fair now, is it? Untie me; give me a fighting chance  though I doubt you will have much to worry about."

Rennard slowly centered the sword across Methos' neck.

Methos began jerking against his bonds again. "Look, is there anything you need; money, secrets, the location of the one, true grail…?"

Rennard's expression was cold, hard and definitely eager. "There can be only one," he pronounced as he raised the sword over his head. He paused, then with a mighty effort, heaved the weapon down hard.

* * * * *

Only to be stopped by LaCroix, his left hand alone strong enough to halt the sword in midstrike.

Surprised by his sudden appearance, Rennard recovered enough to glare. He jerked his hand away and stepped back, pointing the weapon at the vampire. "Do not interfere, mortal!"

LaCroix ignored the sword point and smiled. "I have been called many things throughout my life, but 'mortal' was never one of them." He stepped forward.

"Well, at least you can find comfort that you were called it once before you died!" Rennard lunged forward.

LaCroix was instantly behind him. Hissing, he trapped the sword arm with one hand and gripped the head with the other. The throat exposed, he sank his fangs into the flesh, easily restraining Rennard's struggles. When the sting of lightning crackled against his lips this time, he was ready for it. He paused, then returned to his feast after reopening the wound. Rennard grew weaker and weaker until LaCroix felt him die.

LaCroix dropped the limp body to the floor and looked over at Methos. His captive stared back with an odd mixture of horror and amazement.

"He was younger than you, much younger." LaCroix observed as he wiped his face clean.

Methos considered the words, then curiosity got the better of him. "How can you possibly tell?"

"How would you tell a fine wine?"

Methos was horrified. "By taste? You can _taste_ how old someone is?!"

LaCroix reached down and picked up Rennard's sword. "Oh, I can tell a lot more than that." Rennard had only been, at the most, two hundred years old. There was one image that kept repeating and that was of swords cutting off people's heads. LaCroix wondered….

Methos looked worried. "What are you going to do with that?"

LaCroix stared at his captive. This preoccupation with the sword was crucial somehow, but he couldn't quite figure it out. Well, there was only one thing to be done. Without preamble, he raised the blade and brought it swiftly down on Rennard, severing his head with one clean stroke.

"NO!" Methos howled.

LaCroix stepped back warily, sure something was about to happen.

A white mist rose above Rennard's body. It grew tendrils that curved towards Methos, encircling him about the chest. Lightning danced along the mist and bolts shot into Methos' mouth and eyes. He screamed, his body arching up. He held that position, jerking and seizing as the raw power erupted about the room, piercing his body. The floorboards exploded and the shutters burst outwards. His arms were wrenched upwards, snapping the cords that held him down, the tattered ends dangling from each wrist as his limbs jerk to and fro. Methos screamed again, long and hoarse, the sound pulled out of his very being as the energy continued to invade his body.

LaCroix stared with alarm at the carnage happening about him. Then he felt a tingling in his stomach. Horrified, he gazed down at himself. "Dear gods," he had time to breath before he was flung bodily across the room as a bolt of energy erupted out of this mouth and off his fingertips. A white ball coalesced, spinning briefly before blasting into Methos' body, abruptly cutting off his cries.

The room fell silent. A shutter hanging by one hinge, dropped, clattering into the stillness. LaCroix picked himself up and moved cautiously over to Rennard's body. He bent down to examine it closer.

A moan drifted over from Methos, who rolled painfully onto his side, curling slightly. LaCroix glanced over and realized that the late afternoon sun was shining through one of the windows and the bed now lay in full daylight. He stood up and moved to a protected, shadowed corner and waited.

* * * * *

After the pain receded, Methos rolled over onto his back and sighed. Quickenings were unique and unpredictable. He had never absorbed one while tied to a bed and he did not recommend it; he felt as if he had pulled a dozen muscles. Feeling better, he sat up and looked around. Rennard lay dead, beheaded and a threat no more. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. He suddenly caught sight of the vampire in a dark corner of the room and stopped. LaCroix seemed undamaged; why had he not come for him? Could it be true about creatures of the night and their aversion to sunlight?

He moved slowly towards the door, keeping his eyes on LaCroix.

The vampire's eyes glittered dangerously. "Where do you think you are going?"

Methos put his hand on the door latch. "Away."

"And your promise to do anything I wished if I saved you? What of that?"

Methos grinned. "You may have trouble collecting on that if I can help it." And he was out the door.

"Run if you like, but I will be coming after you!" LaCroix shouted.

"You wouldn't be Roman if you didn't," Methos muttered under his breath. He ran to the hilltop and paused to consider his options. He had maybe an hour of sunlight left and he had left without his sword  not good. He needed somewhere protected to go. Holy Ground was his first inclination. He didn't know if it would be protection from vampires, but they were a type of Immortal, too, after all. And at least he would be safe from any other roaming Immortals who were looking to collect a few heads.

The village of Avebury was nearby. In fact, it was what attracted him to this place. He had lived here long ago when they had raised the enormous stones and placed them in the intricate avenues and circles. Now, the miles of stone rows were mostly gone, buried by the order of the Benedictine priory that was nearby. The good news was that the village itself was half in the circle, and the circle of standing stones was Holy Ground. He would find shelter there.

It was as good as any place with barely an hour of daylight left.

* * * * *

Dusk had overtaken him an hour ago and he was only now just approaching the village. He could make out the massive stones in front of him, sticking up like ragged teeth, bathed in the uncertain light of a three quarters moon. In the last few minutes, the feeling that he was being watched, being followed, grew with each step he took. He tried to calm the anxiety he felt, but it blazed instead. Totally unnerved, he gave in and broke into a trot. Once he was running, he quickly picked up speed until he was sprinting towards what he hoped was safety, racing as fast as he ever had in his long life.

He dashed into the circle and knew it wasn't enough. He altered his path, now aiming towards some of the buildings. He caught sight of the church and put his head down for the final spurt, letting his intuition guide him. _That_ was where he needed to be.

Suddenly, he was blindsided with such force that it knocked him off his feet and carried him sideways until he slammed upright against one of the stones. Stunned, he groggily looked up, knowing that it would be LaCroix who held him pinned against the rock.

He felt a hand snake up past his neck, the fingers tightening cruelly onto a great handful of his hair. Slow pressure was applied until his head was bent back at a painful angle, his mouth opening slightly, his neck totally exposed. He despaired, unable to do anything more than pant raggedly as he tried to catch his breath.

LaCroix leaned closer. He took a deep breath, inhaling the warmth and smell of Methos, his eyes fixed on his captive's lips. "I told you that I would catch you," he breathed.

The ancient Immortal could feel the hunger as the vampire crushed their mouths together. A tongue plunged deeply into him and he willed himself to stay passive against the insistent invader. The kiss ended and LaCroix let his teeth trap Methos' bottom lip, pinching him as he turned his head away.

"What is so important about this place?" LaCroix asked.

Methos swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in sharp relief to the slender throat. The vampire's eyes glittered as they caught the movement.

"It is Holy Ground," he whispered. "Immortals can not kill each other on Holy Ground."

LaCroix chuckled. "This? Holy Ground? Only a mudcovered savage would belive so. Tell me, Methos, did you paint yourself blue and follow that whore Boadicea into battle against Rome?"

Methos eye's flashed with anger. "She was a noble queen and a brilliant general. Rome's treatment of her and her daughters was…barbaric!"

LaCroix was amused by the passion Methos still felt 1300 years after his queen was dead and buried. He couldn't resist baiting him. "She was a whore and she and her daughters were treated as such."

Methos glared and struggled briefly against him.

LaCroix smiled wickedly. "Perhaps you would care to share her punishment?"

The words were like a bucket of cold water on Methos. He knew that it was utter folly to encourage the vampire to acts of cruelty and violence. He had the distinct impression that LaCroix might find such activity inviting. He needed to change where this conversation was going and quickly.

"There's no need for that," he said, anxiously. He stood a little taller. "I said I would do anything you wanted."

"Yes, but that was before you escaped to seek refuge." LaCroix eyed him, speculating on what he might be offering. "Alright," he said, stepping back from Methos. "Let us see what you remember. Disrobe," he ordered in Latin.

Methos fixed the vampire with a long, measuring stare, then he lowered his eyes. "I hear and obey," he repeated; the ancient, expected reply, also in Latin. Sexual abuse of slaves had been common in Rome.

He shrugged out of the heavy, wool robe. Unbuckling his belt, he dropped it to the ground and pealed off his tunic. Kicking the soft slippers off of his feet, he slipped his hands beneath his gown undergarment and pulled down the wool stockings that kept his legs warm. He stepped out of them and stood clothed only in the light cotton gown that also served as sleeping attire. He looked back up at LaCroix, expectantly, apprehensively.

* * * * *

LaCroix smiled his approval, but gave a small wave of his hand, indicating the gown. "Do not tell me you have developed a sense of modesty?" He eased closer and reaching out, slowly pulled the thin garment over Methos' head. "Ahh…. Much better," he exclaimed, eyeing the naked man in front of him. The physique was one of a longrange runner  spare, lean and sleek. Even though the body was thousands of years old, it had the glow of youthfulness. Athletic and slender, there were no scars or blemishes to mar the perfect skin. He felt himself grow hard as he admired the beauty before him.

He ran his hands up the thin arms and felt them quiver beneath his touch. It might have been from the cool night air, or perhaps it was from excitement. At least, that is what he was hoping for as he set himself the goal of seducing this young man.

He gathered him close, letting his questing fingers roam over the passive form, exploring the contours and feasting on the delicious heat of a living body. Inclining his head, he let his mouth explore the strong jaw line, pausing to nibble at an ear. He nuzzled into the soft, shoulder length brown hair, inhaling the earthy delights of oils and sweat that a living body excreted. Ahh, the odors were so _male_ , that his cock jumped again in its eagerness.

Sensing unease from Methos and wanting a more impassioned response, LaCroix gave in to a passing whim and sent a mild suggestion to him  an encouragement to relax and enjoy himself, nothing more. Continuing his kisses, he reversed his path until he found the sweet mouth and pressed a deep kiss upon him. As he plundered the mouth, he slid his hands down until they gripped the firm ass. His hands flexed and tightened in time with the rhythm of his kiss and he felt Methos begin to respond to him. Tentative at first, the ancient Immortal started to return the kiss with enthusiasm.

The heat of LaCroix's passion grew intense. When he felt his urgency being returned, he leaned slightly away. Methos' eyes were dilated and vaguely wild, his lips flushed and swollen  the very picture of wantonness.

"On your knees and kiss me," LaCroix whispered. "Suck me like a hungry weanling, _mon tendre agneau._ "

Methos, breathing heavily, looked down at LaCroix's groin and licked his lips. He dropped suddenly to his knees, and reaching out, pealed away the vampire's clothing until his cock was free. He could see a dark droplet of pre cum weeping from the tip. Touching his tongue to it, he realized it tasted more like blood than semen, but he cared not.

Opening his mouth wide, he slid the organ in and avidly started tonguing and suckling, striking up a rhythm that quickly gave LaCroix weak knees.

The ancient one was better than LaCroix had guessed. All too soon he could feel the impending climax and he pushed Methos away till he lay dazed at the vampire's feet.

LaCroix stood above him, breathing heavily. "I need more…." he explained. "I need all of you." Kneeling down almost reverently next to the fevered man, he reached out and firmly guided him onto his stomach. He slipped a hand under a knee and pulled it up, opening Methos to him.

Not bothering to disrobe, he inched himself closer. Covering him, he used his hand to guide himself in. He felt the supple body beneath him tense, Methos' breaths were now confined to short gasps. Placing his hand on the Immortal's shoulder and the other on his hip, he used the holds for both leverage and coordination as he plunge deeper and deeper. As he increased the power to his thrusts, he was rewarded by a grunt as each drive jerked the writhing body up off the ground.

When his pleasure had reached a plateau, he knew it was time for the rest; to partake of the living essence of his blood  hot, thick, and spiced with lust. He threw his head back, glorying in the power and the heightened sensations as he became fully a vampire. Tightening his grip, he swooped down and plunged his teeth violently into the neck. The man beneath him cried out in pain and fear, struggling in a blind panic. LaCroix held him hard as he sucked strongly at the exquisite fluid. With regret, he ended his feeding before the heart stilled; he was still fairly full from the meal two hours earlier. As he watched, blood pumped from the open wound, coursing down the neck and flowing across the prominate collarbone to spread across the chest. Then the ripped tissue sparkled with a blue energy and the wound healed itself. With a thrill, he remember what else was to happened and braced himself in preparation, determined to give his prize a good pounding until the quickening left LaCroix and entered the Immortal.

When the tingling started in his stomach, he rammed himself as deeply as he could and waited, holding tight to the sweaty body underneath him. He could feel the energy build, drawing lower until it exploded from his cock and burst into Methos. Both men screamed as a powerful climax torn through them. LaCroix, still not used to the intensity of the power and pleasure of the quickening energy, lay stunned in the aftermath.

* * * * *

Methos took a deep breath in, trying hard to collect two coherent thoughts and put them together. Never had he felt anything like that! Never had he even heard of combining sex and a quickening, which was just as well as he rather imagined there would be quite a few less Immortals around if it were common knowledge!

He shifted uncomfortably under the heavy weight that lay across him and realized with a start that LaCroix must be incapacitated. One of the reasons that Methos was incredibly longlived, was the fact that he was very quick on the uptake, and recognized an opportunity when it came tapping gently on the door.

He quickly pulled himself out from under LaCroix, and gathered up what clothes lay between him and the lane to the church. All he needed was maybe a two minute headstart, then he'd be safe within the asylum of St. John's. He was quite sore, but he ran as quickly, barely lessening his speed as he skidded though the great door of the church. He paused long enough to shut and bar the door behind him.

Looking wildly around, he spotted the font and ran to it, heeding an intuition he had. He pushed the lid off and stared down at the Holy Water. He remembered LaCroix flinching as he saw a crucifix in his home, he remembered him scoffing at the idea that a stone circle was Holy Ground. Something told him the liquid below was his salvation. Bending down, he scooped the water up and drank it from his cupped hands. When he had had his fill, he soaked his gown in it and used it to wipe himself clean from the caked blood that was on his neck and smeared on his chest. Reaching down, he felt more blood on his thighs. He twisted about and was in the act of cleaning between his legs when the door flew open. Startled, he crouched low, keeping the font between himself and the vampire.

LaCroix stepped just inside the church, his blues eyes icy with anger as they focused in on the cowering Immortal.

"Leave this place!" LaCroix ordered.

"No." Methos was determined to stay, but he could feel a sudden compulsion to stand and walk over to the vampire. He shook his head and looked at the carvings on the Saxon font, desperate to break the psychic connection between them.

LaCroix was surprised. "What have you done?!" he demanded.

"I have drank of the holy water." He prayed that it was a response that would anger the vampire even more.

"What?!" LaCroix hissed, his fury plain. "You stupid, little man!"

"You sound displeased. Does that mean I am…inedible now?" The Immortal grew more confident when LaCroix did not physically move against him. His gift of intuition had saved his ass again.

"For the time," he seethed. "I will find you, though. You can not hide from me."

"Well, I plan on virtually living in each church I come to; drinking holy water will be my daily ritual." Methos' expression hardened. "Get used to the knowledge that you will not be able to have me again."

"Maybe not soon, but I _will_ have you again. This I promise you." And with a flourish, LaCroix turned and strode out the door.

Methos sighed with relief. He had been incredibly lucky to have gotten free of LaCroix so quickly. Now that the threat was over, he took the time to redressed himself, shaking slightly as the leftover adrenaline burned itself up in his body. He leaned against the altar, planning his movements over the next few weeks.

But as carefully as he had planned, he was delayed for two days. When the priest and a lay brother came in the following morning, they found him collapsed at the altar. Fearful at first of the plague, they carefully examined him, but he showed no symptoms of the illness that was destroying whole towns. Mystified, they carried him to the priory for the monks to care for. He lay unconscious and feverish for a day, but then recovered quickly from the strange sickness. He gave them his thanks and left.

Methos was confounded by the strange affliction. Yes, Immortals could start to fall ill, but as a disease began to effect their bodies, their amazing healing properties took over and cured them. And even more strange, after he recovered he discovered he had changed. He could now sense other Immortals at a much further distance than he had before, and he could now tell if they were orientated towards good or evil. It was an advantage that helped him immeasurably in avoiding other Immortals.

And strangely, he now felt a slightly different buzz when another type of Immortal was near  the vampire. He rather imagined the changes had something to do with LaCroix, but he could not understand them.

* * * * *

#### Washington State, 1995:

Methos twisted about in LaCroix's grip until he was facing him, hating the unsecured feeling of just dangling. He slipped his arms around LaCroix's neck and even brought his legs up to encircle the vampire's waist. Committed to his course, he was damned sure he was not going to have an accidental fall on top of every other bad thing that'd happened tonight.

LaCroix's thin, pale lips curved up in a small smile. "Comfy?" His deep voice was as rich and smooth as fine malt whisky.

"I didn't want to loose you," he replied with faint sarcasm. Looking down at the passing countryside, he realized they were already well past the reach of the city lights. It made him uncomfortable. "Is this going to be a long trip?" he asked worriedly.

LaCroix leaned his head forward. Nuzzling into the sweater's neckline, he nipped at Methos's collarbone, then used his tongue to sooth the unbroken skin. He licked his way up until he had found the point at which the pulse was strongest. He sucked and nibbled at the spot.

If Methos didn't already know what this was a precursor to, he might have found it enjoyable. Instead, he shifted uncomfortably. "Shouldn't you be, you know, paying more attention to your, ah, flying?"

"But you make it so hard, _mon delicieux morceau de chair."_

Methos rolled his eyes at the doubleentendre. Here he was hundreds of feet in the air, being flown to godknowswhere by a _vampire_ who was about fuck his brains out  which he wasn't entirely sure he was going to survive  and his _ride_ was making witty jokes. "Why the bloody hell does this have to happen to me?" he groused.

* * * * *

The nice thing about having Methos wrapped around him was that it left LaCroix's hands free. He slipped them under the ancient Immortal's sweater and down his pants, rubbing, squeezing and raking his nails over the tender flesh. And Methos was responding. He could feel the legs clench, the hips twist and the breath quicken. The heartbeat sped up, pumping heat and urgency throughout the slim body. It was with relief when they arrived at their destination.

He landed with a faint impact, the full moon giving an eerie but bright illumination. When Methos was slow to unwind himself, LaCroix took a few steps over to a low stone. Reaching up, he peeled off Methos' arms, and gripping his hips, wrenched him away. He forced him onto the thigh high platform. His actions were hard and rough, a promise of what was to come.

Brown eyes stared back at him in agreement, mirroring his lust. If LaCroix wanted hard and fast, Methos was ready for him.

Reaching down, LaCroix pulled the sweater off over Methos' head and set it aside. He let his hands slide down the long, slim legs until they were stopped by the encumbrance of shoes. With a hard jerk, he had wrenched the shoes off, stripping the socks away an instant later. Placing his hands on the waistband, he tore it apart, the zipper's seam giving way. Methos lifted his hips to assist in the removal of his jeans and briefs, giving a little kick when one legging refused to clear his foot.

LaCroix paused, letting his eyes feast on the vision before him. Naked and yielding, the Immortal sat before him propped up by his elbows. His knees were up and spread wide, allowing his partial arousal to take center stage. Moonlight caused the pale skin to glow, transforming the lean man in front of him into an alabaster sculpture in the ideal embodiment of long forgotten youthful Grecian beauty. It was the most perfect picture of invitation he'd seen for hundreds of years, and it made him ache for what was before him, and for what had long since past into dust.

"Do you know where we are?"

Methos glance to the side, then did a double take. They were surrounded by a ring of capped standing stones, a too flawless duplication of Stonehenge. "Where…? What is this place?"

"A rich eccentric decided to build a war memorial on the bank of a river. As inappropriate as his choice was for that purpose, it is perfect for mine."

Methos took a closer look at the altar stone he sat on. "I hope this doesn't mean…?"

LaCroix smiled. "A sacrifice? He who leaves his love alive, will enjoy a fuck another time."

A grin slipped onto Methos's face and he shook his head. "It doesn't rhyme, but I can appreciate the sentiment."

"Good. Now, with that out of the way…." he reached up and pulled his own shirt off; his trousers and shoes quickly followed. The former Roman general stood naked and gleaming. His body was of a more mature type with strong shoulders and a welldeveloped back. He enjoyed the widening of Methos' eyes and the small lick of his lips; was it of apprehension or appreciation? Or maybe anticipation?

He let one hand stroke his erection upwards. "Do you realize that I must feed on another first before I can manage one of these for you?"

Methos closed his eyes and turned his head. Holding up one hand, he said, "Thanks for sharing, but I really would rather not know any details like that."

LaCroix placed his other hand on Methos' knee and pulled him sharply towards him. He lifted him slightly and stuffed the sweater under his hips, preparing his position. A leg on either side of him, LaCroix let his hands prowl up the thighs until he was gripping the tense, compact ass. He groaned.

"Ooh, _mon vorace petit catin._ "

Methos had been arching and wriggling closer, drawn to the ardor in that strong, sure touch, but now he paused. "In your dreams, LaCroix," he snorted at the French phrase.

The vampire shifted, holding his hand out in front of Methos' mouth, two of his fingers extended. He raised an inquiring eyebrow.

The Immortal smiled slightly, drawing his cheeks in as he worked to gather his saliva. Opening his mouth, he enveloped the fingers, and using his tongue, coated them liberally with the slick fluid. As LaCroix withdrew his fingers, Methos added, "Besides, if you're going to talk dirty to me, do it in Latin."

"Of course. You are quite right." As he thrust a finger, then another into Methos, he told him in the crudest slang used by the conquering legions that he was about to be honored by being well and truly fucked by one favored by the gods.

Methos let his head drop back as he groaned, "Gods! Does that ever bring back memories!"

LaCroix pulled the cheeks apart and without further preamble, pushed his straining cock inwards. He was rewarded by a grunt and a tensing of the taut body before him. The semidry penetration caused some discomfort and made his partner squirm. LaCroix liked the squirming and settled into deeper and deeper thrusts, holding firmly onto the narrow hips. The squirms turned into twistings, and they in turn, changed into writhing. The sight of that smooth, white body dancing with passion on the rough stone, increased his craving. The vampiric change swept through him, inflaming his lust further. He needed more and he had to have it now. He strained forward towards his lover's throat.

* * * * *

Methos was enjoying himself and was actually beginning to hope that the encounter was going to remain a good and thorough shagging. As the rhythm grew fiercer, he sneaked a peak. LaCroix clutched at his hips as he pounded into him, his arm and abdominal muscles thick with urgency as they worked him. Then he saw the change  LaCroix's eyes blazed with fire and with his mouth open wide, the carnivorous teeth reflecting the cold moonlight.

Methos quickly squeezed his eyes shut again. It was the one thing he had wanted to avoid seeing. He did not fancy the sight of a demonic lover possessing his body. It was too much like bestiality, or some hellish Christian nightmare where Satan himself took his nightly pleasures by raping the poor souls entrapped in Perdition.

He knew what was coming and he turned his chin to the side. The impact was numbing and he could feel the warmth trickle down his neck as the vampire bit painfully into him and sucked hard at his life's blood. Still impaled, Methos could feel the cock within him jump and throb with each swallow. As the weakness of blood loss claimed him, he felt overwhelmed with the feeling of complete defilement and violation. He sensed his quickening ebbing away. Panicking, he pushed at LaCroix.

"No…NO! Too much!" he gasped. "You're taking too much!"

With an anguished cry, LaCroix jerked his head away. They solemly regarded one another, both men panting from their exertions.

The wound on his neck sizzled with power has it healed itself. LaCroix, to his relief, did not reopen the wound, but made fast work licking up what blood had dripped away. The vampire's hands found his and gripping them hard, entwined their fingers together. LaCroix pulled them well above his head and held Methos pinned, his body stretched out and exposed  completely vulnerable.

LaCroix started thrusting again, long and hard. Eye to eye, he eagerly watched Methos' expression as he fucked him. And because it was sex of a kind he was more familiar with and enjoyed, the Immortal brought his legs up behind LaCroix, urging him to go deeper with each thrust.

When LaCroix captured his mouth and plunged his tongue deep inside him in a savage kiss, Methos knew it was about to begin  the thing that would always entice him back for more, no matter how sick or perverted he considered his couplings with LaCroix to be. An orgasmic quickening.

The power that LaCroix had absorbed by drinking Methos' blood only stayed with him briefly. Like water seeking it's own level, the energy was drawn back to the only receptacle that could contain it  an Immortal. And as electricity will do, it took the path of least resistance. No sparks were seen, only two bodies convulsing together as the power shot out of LaCroix, entering Methos with blistering intensity where their tongues met. Their fingers cruelly clutched together as the energy seemed to build around the connection. But the major burst occurred where they were joined together in the deepest intimacy; electricity poured through the vampire's cock, exploding through Methos' sensitive prostate and into his bowels. The Immortal lovers gripped each other tightly as the massive orgasm seized them both.

The intensity of the pleasure/pain was too much for Methos. Already weak from blood loss, he passed out.

* * * * *

LaCroix collapsed heavily as the last of the quickening left him. As he struggled to bring his breathing under control, he became more aware of the spark of life that flared persistently beneath him. He could feel a rapid pounding as the heart desperately tried to circulate what little blood was left. The beating so close to where his own used to throb, caused a flash of poignancy for the loss of what he once was. Never one much for regrets, he rejected the emotion, but nonetheless, gave a simple mortaltype kiss to the unconscious man beneath him, allowing his tongue to delve one last time within the sweet, young mouth.

Aware of the late hour, he reluctantly levered himself up off the pliant body, loathe to end the delightful joining. His body urged him to dive back and embrace the Immortal again, repeating the heady ecstasy until the morning sun vaporized him in the act of possessing this man again. With a rueful grin, he acknowledged that a man could become obsessed with sex like this.

LaCroix extracted himself from the unconscious man and stood up. As he had expected, the encounter was even better than the one six hundred years ago had been. He stared fondly at the relaxed form spreadeagle on the altar stone, and knew he would take up the brushes and oils again to recreate such an inviting scene. Never had anyone worn that freshly debauched look with such beauty and innocence. Methos was priceless in more ways than one.

He inspected himself and saw with distaste that, as usual, sex with the living was much messier than with the undead. Picking up Methos' briefs, he used them to wipe himself clean. As an afterthought, he folded them and used the clean side to sop up the creamy semen that was liberally smeared across the flat stomach before him. "No need to ask if it was as good for you as it was for me," he purred as he tossed the soiled cloth away.

As he pulled on his clothes, he reviewed some of the images he had absorbed through the exquisitely flavored blood. Methos had led a relatively quiet life since their last meeting, but there was one bright spot in the world of grey  the tall, dark man that had tried to rescue Methos in the alley. LaCroix knew Duncan was his name and where he lived. He also knew that they had only recently become lovers, and that both Immortals would protect unto death the life of the other.

LaCroix smiled. He could think of no safer place to store his treasure than with this man. It would also make it easier to find Methos in the future and to manipulate him into a willing tryst, for LaCroix had no intention of giving up these mindblowing assignations. Though he knew they would become addicting if repeated too often and any dependency was a weakness, he felt a session once or twice a year would be tolerable. Maybe he would choose this site again in remembrance of their first coupling so many centuries before in that ancient stone circle.

So, with the night more than half over and LaCroix still hundreds of miles from the safety of his chosen lair, he decided to wrap things up. Methos was slow to recover; he probably wouldn't until he got something to drink. The vampire made a mental note to himself to bring some liquid along next time.

He quickly redressed the slack body, but when confronted by the shoes, he decided to leave them there with the briefs; the dawn was too close to be bothering with things like that. He hefted Methos over one shoulder and soared into the air.

A few hours later, he landed on top of the dojo. He could feel MacLeod awake below him, fretting about his friend. Laying his burden down, he checked Methos one more time. Blood loss and exposure to the chill autumn air was all that was keeping him incapacitated. Standing, he retreated into a dark shadow and let his thoughts find the Immortal below.

"Come," he whisper, willing him closer. He waited.

A minute later, MacLeod stealthily crept out onto the roof, his sword at the ready. Catching sight of Methos sprawled out, he quickly moved closer, maintaining his alertness. He knelt down and placing his hand on his shoulder, gave it a shake.

"Methos!" he said urgently.

LaCroix stepped out into view. "How touching."

The sword zeroed in on LaCroix's heart as the Highlander crouched defensively over his vulnerable lover. "What have you don ta him?!"

LaCroix smiled wickedly. "I'll let our sleeping friend tell you if he so desires. If you want him…." he paused, boldly eyeing the athletic body, leaving no doubt as to his meaning, "'recovered,' give him liquids and a warm bath, though I can attest to the delights he offers 'as is.'"

MacLeod's outrage was so great it left him momentarily stunned.

And in the space of those few seconds, LaCroix was gone. There was no time to torment this impressive figure further. He needed to check on Natalie to make sure she had come to no harm. It was true that LaCroix was many things, but he was also protective of his children, and this was the first time he had left her on her own.

As he raced away, LaCroix idly wondered what it would be like to bed the Highlander. He considered the broad, hearty body and decided not. If he was going to partake the fine elixir of a different type of immortality, he would prefer the slim, graceful build of his chosen  a man with whom it was easy to slip back into his time of mortalness and live once again the days of mighty Rome. A man with whom, as he drank his blood, he could even see back to a time before his own birth, when the pyramids were not yet even dreamed of. To a time so distant, man had not yet even conceived of the concept of writing. In fact, LaCroix had the distinct impression that there was something even further back, something long buried and perhaps even forgotten by Methos himself.

Well, that was a path he would explore at some future date. He smiled at the anticipation he felt. It was good to have something to look forward to, something to quicken the blood.

* * * * *

Duncan scooped up the ancient Immortal and carefully carried him down the stairs into his quarters. He laid Methos on the bed and turned up the light, his anger turning to worry; Immortals never stayed out for this length of time. Noticing the paler than usual skin, he rested his hand over Methos'. It was icy, but he was reassured as he felt a slight squeeze in response. Deciding to follow the instructions given to him, he hastened to the kitchen for some juice. With a little care, he managed to support Methos while pouring the fluid into him, taking care not to give him too much, or too fast.

"Ohh…." Methos groaned. "Gods…I feel terrible."

"If you're complaining you must be doing better. Let's get you into a nice hot bath." As he prepared to help Methos off with his clothes, he noticed the sweater was on inside out and the fly of the jeans was torn to pieces. Not to mention that the underwear he had donned this morning was missing completely, and he was barefooted.

"Oh, laddie. What has happened to you?" MacLeod's accent, as always, became thicker when he was upset. He was distressed by the disheveled and abused look to his love.

"It's a long story, MacLeod," he said wearily. "Later."

"Well, I'll drawn you a bath then."

He shifted to move away, but Methos caught his arm to stay him.

"That can wait. What I really need now is for you to hold me. Hold me tight," he repeated, suddenly needy for Duncan's presence  to be reassured that the strong, brave Highlander was there and the decadent spectre that was LaCroix was not.

Duncan smiled fondly. "You're half frozen  the bath'll be good for you," he coaxed.

Methos tugged him closer. "This will be better, and besides, I'll survive. I always do," he added, his voice bleak and worn.

Duncan leaned over and gathered him close, needing to give the comfort his lover so obviously required. He gave him a gentle kiss, and hugged him tighter, settling in for as long as Methos needed.

"See that you do," the highlander murmured.

#### Translations:

  


#####   
_Mon doux repas prefere_ : My favorite sweet meal  
 _Mon tendre agneau_ : My tender lamb  
 _Mon delicieux morceau de chair_ : My delectable piece of flesh  
 _Mon vorace petit catin_ : My greedy little whore

  


* * * * *

DARK LOVE SERIES: I | [II](secrets.htm)

END

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to Secrets of Darkened Hearts. This story was published in the zine Awakenings 2.
> 
> Also, since this was written, there have been some major 'revelations' about Methos' character. Oh well!


End file.
